


Gladiator Magnus

by Cruel_Irony



Series: HappyJarryHolidays [3]
Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: Abuse, Ancient Rome, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Abuse, Bad Parenting, Gladiators, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-18 20:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19342498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cruel_Irony/pseuds/Cruel_Irony
Summary: Happy Jarry Holidays Week One: Red - life, passion, danger. Gladiator AUHarry, the greatest gladiator in Rome, has been training to fight, kill and survive the Great Games since was a child. James, the most hated son of the emperor, has been learning to lie, hide and survive life in the Imperial Palace for as long as he has lived. Their lives collide when the emperor brings Harry into his household, as his personal gladiator.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make this as historically accurate as I could, but I wasn't quite willing to extensively research gladiators for a Jarry fic (hence the tag Historical Inaccuracies, just in case).
> 
> Also, this is set in Ancient Rome and the Romans had very different moral compasses to nowadays. Slavery was accepted (there is some language in the fic, such as "master" and mentions of slaves wearing permanent collars around their necks like dog collars which are historically accurate), public entertainment included executions of criminals and slaves, gladiator fights, battle reenactments and fights with exotic animals (there is no form of entertainment, apart from plays, that does not include some form of abuse, death or injury). Please be aware of this, and if it might trigger you don't read, but I have tried to make it as least graphic as possible while still maintaining adequate writing style.
> 
> If you have any concerns don't hesitate to ask.

The training ground reeks of blood, sweat and death, and the clash of swords, axes and shields reverberate around the room. In one corner, skeletal slaves scrub at a rusted red stain on the stones, their hands raw and bloody, their eyes dark and hungry, while the masters, seeming overdressed in their sweeping togas when surrounded by sparsely clothed slaves, circle the room like vultures with scented rags held over their noses. But the arena is dominated by creatures of pure rippling muscle - the gladiators - who spar with deadly strength and accuracy to prove their worth.

One such gladiator, named Harry by his mother, picks himself up from the straw strewn floor, having let him opponent trip him up, and pushes his offensive. Sweat drips down his face, stinging the cuts above his eyebrow and along his cheek. His muscles protest quietly, but he long ago learnt to ignore such weaknesses, and the adrenaline carries him through to disarm and defeat his opponent efficiently. Their match had already been prolonged long enough to show off for the masters.

As he holds the point of his sword under the other man’s chin, Harry’s master applauds and Harry can breathe easy. When the master is happy, the slaves are happy, too. Harry offers his hand to the other gladiator and hoists him to his feet, they nod politely to each other than part ways. Gladiators may share close bonds with each other but there is always the shadow of death hanging over their heads.

The master approaches and Harry averts is eyes. “You fight well. And you will fight well in the Games tomorrow. You know the drill. Go get cleaned up, I need you all pretty for the crowds.” The man dismisses Harry with a wave of his hand, but Harry stays.

“What is it?” Harry opens his mouth, but his master beats him to it, sighing in frustration and giving the same answer as he always gives: “Fight well tomorrow and we’ll see.”

“Thank you, master.” Harry leaves swiftly, thankful for the man’s patience and understanding. Any other master would have had him flogged for insubordination already. Harry is lucky. But not too lucky, he still hurries to do as ordered and be ready to fight for his life in the arena. And maybe if he wins he can have his freedom.

*

The crowd in the amphitheatre scream and cheer: old men on the fringe of death, young boys with nary a whisker on their chins, priests and priestesses, rich men, poor men, and the odd woman. They all forget their woes and suffering, they even forget to be above such violence, as they watch this barbaric spectacle. Unarmed criminals die by the swords of skilled gladiators, skilled gladiators die by the jaws of exotic lions and hippopotami, and the exotic lions and hippopotami die by the swords of skilled gladiators, all in an endless cycle of blood, gore and death. And the people love it, they lap it up and beg for more.

Harry dons his armour and swings his sword as the slaves drag away the bodies from the last match. He’s fighting rebels today, ex-gladiators who revolted against their superiors and will now be punished with death and irony. With their faces covered by thick helms, Harry is glad he cannot recognise an old comrade.

An eager hush falls over the crowd as a senator stands to announce the next match. Harry steps out into the grand arena, lifting his sword and shield and hollering at the crowd who howl his name. His opponent appears to a wave of boos and obscenities, but he is aloof and barely glances at them.

Before they can fight, as the people wish, the two fighters stand before the Imperial family. Sat, resplendent in silks and gold and purple, in their box surrounded by senators and guards, the emperor and his family gaze down like gods at the mere mortals. Harry can easily spot the emperor, golden laurels crown him, next to the empress, his wife, a beautifully distant woman, but Harry cannot distinguish their children. He knows they have four, he even vaguely knows their names, but he has never been one for gossip or politics. There are more important things, like staying alive.

The emperor nods grandly.

Harry’s opponent wastes no time in launching himself at Harry, who sidesteps and uses his shield to knock the other gladiator into the ground. It would be easy to deliver a winning blow now, while the man pulls himself to his feet, and were this a battle in an actual war, Harry wouldn’t hesitate. But this is a game, and Harry’s survival not only rests on winning but also on putting on a good show. So Harry stands back to let the other man stand, then begins the show.

Five minutes later, both gladiators are bleeding, one more heavily than the other, and the game must come to an end now. The crowd are begging for death and one glance at the emperor shows his waning attentions. The rebel gladiator’s eyes glow with a desperate fire, this is his last chance, he has to win. But his desire to win makes him reckless, and Harry can use that to his advantage. Not half a minute after they had begun to exchange blows again, the man leaves an opening and Harry has his defenceless and on the ground clutching a broken arm. The roars of the crowd are deafening and Harry allows himself to hear their admiration. He wishes it was admiration for a less deadly achievement but it is what he is best at, so he’ll take it.

With one eye on the other gladiator, Harry looks up at the emperor, awaiting final judgement. The arena holds its breath. The emperor stands and saunters up to the balcony’s edge, and even from a distance Harry can see the grin spreading across his face. He holds out his hand, all eyes on him, and lifts his thumb into the hair.

The crowd erupt. Harry tightens his grip on his sword and raises it into the air. He plays with the people - even this is part of the show - and he has them on the edge of their seats. He twirls his sword. He doesn’t look at the other gladiator as he brings it down. He feels it though, the resistance in his arm and the blood hot against his skin, and once again the people of Rome bask in the bloodshed like animals.

The people cheer Harry’s name as he leaves the arena, but once the doors close behind him, he drops his arms and slumps against the wall. Exhaustion catches up to him and he can suddenly feel each and every wound on his body. Every cut sluggishly oozing blood, every throbbing bruise and aching muscle. One of the slaves hauls him to his feet and drags him away to be patched up. Harry zones out as they clean him up, he’s earned this one respite.

*

Harry awakes in his room, though it is more like a comfortable cell - close walled with a window not much bigger than his hand and only the bare necessities - and barely has time to sit up before his master barges into his room and pulls him to his feet. He is dragged through the corridors and into the atrium where the whole household has assembled. His master directs Harry to stand next to his master’s other gladiators, then abandons him, clueless as to what is happening. Harry sends a questioning look to the others, but they are just as confused.

When Harry hears the thud of marching feet and the dull clang of swords knocking against armour, he wonders why the household is greeting an army. When the sigil of the praetorian guard appears with the first soldier, Harry’s heart begins to beat louder - what business could the Imperial family have here? When the emperor himself rounds the corner, so different up close, Harry fears for the extinction of the entire house. His palms are sweaty, his lungs falter. Never has he felt such anxiety, not even before his first fight.

As one the household kneels before the emperor. There’s a prickling at the back of Harry’s neck as he bows his head. The emperor is watching him. He can’t think what he could have done to insult the emperor but he is sure his life is forfeit now. Catching the emperor’s eye is never a good idea. The household stand and the emperor greets Harry’s master with an eerie amiability; he smiles but it never reaches his eyes, and his compliments ring hollow. The emperor appears to take immense pleasure in the master’s bootlicking. Throughout their discussion, the emperor keeps looking at Harry.

“Harry! Come here!” Finally the master calls for him, and Harry’s heart leaps into his throat. With his head bowed and his eyes averted, he approaches the two men. The emperor grips Harry’s chin hard and lifts it up, turning his face this way and that. Then he circles him, looking him up and down. Harry has never felt more like a piece of meat, and object to be observed, bought, sold and used. He’s being looked at with the same eye that one would look at an ox, to see if it’s strong enough to plough a field, or a vase, to see if it would look pretty in the dining room.

The emperor pierces him with steel grey eyes, his lip curling. “You’re mine now, boy.” He spits. “You’ll fight for me in the arena, you understand? You’re my gladiator now.”

Harry’s master - old master now, Harry supposes - is handed a rather substantial amount of gold, and he shoots Harry an apologetic glance before looking away guiltily. The man had promised that if Harry fought well enough he would be free, but instead, all it got him was more slavery. Just like that Harry’s life has been upturned, sent into a downward spiral. The emperor won’t let him go easily.

Harry is taken from his home, without even a second to bid farewell to the few people who meant anything to him, and dragged by the Praetorians back to the emperor’s estates. If he had any belongings he would not have been allowed to go aback and get them.

*

Despite the drastic change in masters, Harry life is much the same for the first few weeks. Training, training and more training. He is pushed harder than ever before, worked until his bones ache. He is never free of bruises or scrapes and he sleeps so deeply that he barely dreams, not of the games, not of the lives he’s taken, not even of freedom. But he understand there is a weight on his shoulders now - he is the emperor’s gladiator, he has to be the best. If he fails, if he doesn’t impress, then there is worse facing him that a beating or starvation. It will be death.

A month after he had been sold for the second time in his life, Harry fights in the amphitheatre again. His armour is the most expensive he has ever worn and the emperor’s sigil is blazoned on his chest and his shield for the whole of Rome to see. His opponent, however, wears old and worn armour, unmarked, and he glares at Harry with such ferocity that Harry’s previous fears of the other gladiators going easy on him because of who owns him are crushed. This gladiator won’t hold back just because Harry represents the emperor.

But it isn’t a problem. The man puts up a fight, and almost gets in a killing blow or two, but as the fight stretches on, minute by minute, his skill makes way for anger, and any training he had disappears under the tidal wave of primal rage. They were matched in strength, but Harry’s discipline won out. The match ends in a killing blow as they always do.

Now that Harry has proved himself a worthwhile investment, his master isn’t content to let him train out of sight. He wants his prize to be seen. He brings senators and patrons down to watch him train, see him and touch him, and on occasion Harry is brought out from his room, cleaned up and paraded through some party like some exotic treasure. Harry knows his worth, knows he’s just the son of a prostitute someone saw potential in. He might be the emperor’s favourite gladiator, but he’s still just a slave. He could never hope to be half of what those men are. And being leered at by senators, groped by roaming hands and spoken about like he’s deaf or simple, have done nothing for his self-worth.

But even while feeling more like an ornament than a human being withe each passing day, he doesn’t stop asking. “When will I be freed?” he asks his trainer, when he sags into his arms after a gruelling fight against five other men. “Have I proved my worth? Will you free me?” He dares to ask the emperor, only to receive a blow to the face from the head of the Praetorian guard. “When will it be enough?” He asks the young slave girl who comes to tend his wounds in the evening. No matter how he is punished, Harry keeps asking. He has nothing to lose.

The emperor has dismissed Harry for the evening. After yet another fight all he wants is to sleep the night away but his master had plans to show him off as a symbol of the emperor’s strength and superiority. With the skirmishes on the frontiers turning to full scale battles, Harry cannot blame the emperor for needing to display his power - if his gladiator is this good, the army must be better - but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Harry is weaving through the crowds of senators, priests and noblewomen when he hears it, his ears burning.

“That’s him, brother, father’s latest acquisition.” One man - one of the emperor’s sons - says, his voice warm and jovial, clearly he’s had rather a bit to drink. “Rather a good find. They say he’s the best gladiator in the city, in the whole empire, actually.”

“How good for father.” The other son replies dryly, but he turns to stare at Harry nonetheless.

Harry feels the gaze on him, burning and soul-seeing, and turns just as he leaves the room. The man is beautiful. Dark hair, clean-shaven and lean, he’s tall, so tall that Harry imagines he’d have to stand on his toes just to be able to kiss the man. His eyes are stunning, nothing like his father’s, and that smirk warms Harry’s cheeks and sends a rush of heat southwards. Harry doesn’t know which son it is - one of the eldest two - couldn’t even put a name to the face. He just hopes he’ll keep seeing him at these events, if only a glimpse to brighten Harry’s day.

Before either of them can do something foolish, and before the emperor can call him back, Harry hurries back to his room. He can feel the man’s eyes on him the whole way, no matter how silly that sounds, and thinks touching him would feel even better. That night, he dreams of the man and knows it won’t be the last time.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry is running through his sword drills, muscle memory taking him easily through thrusts and parries, when he feels the eyes burning a hole in his back. It must be the emperor, he thinks. The emperor is the only one who cares how his training goes. It wouldn’t be the first time the man has come down to stare and make him uncomfortable, before telling him he isn’t working hard enough. The critics are the same every time, and Harry knows deep down that they are empty words - the emperor knows little about the ins and outs of gladiatorial training - but they have begun to wear him down. The words have lodged in his mind, whispering to him in his dreams. He fears the death that comes with inexperience and lack of skills. He fears the death that will come if he disappoints the emperor one time too many.

Without turning to catch the cold stone eyes of the emperor, Harry tightens his hold on the sword and puts more force behind his swings. Between each move he adds some flair, a sense of style, something that the crowds lap up like dogs. He turns and spins. It’s a delicate dance, on the knife edge between life and death. Throughout it all he feels eyes on him. He finishes with a flourish that takes the head off the wooden dummy.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

That’s not the emperor. Not unless he’s been assassinated and deposed in the space of a day, and Harry thinks he would have been told. Slowly, not quite knowing what to expect, Harry turns around. He looks eyes with the man, who still applauds him, and nearly stops breathing. It’s the emperor’s son, the beautiful, dark-haired one. Oh, how he wishes he had a name to match the face.

“Impressive. You really taught that dummy whose boss.” The man jokes, a smirk playing on his lips. “I see why they call you the Greatest Gladiator.”

Harry licks his lips, his voice doesn’t seem to want to work. “I-Is that all they call me?” He croaks out, before clearing his throat and blushing. Thankfully, there is only a twinkle in the man’s eye to suggest he noticed.

“Well, some senators have taken to calling you the emperor’s pet, but I doubt you’ll like that one no matter how true it is.” Harry nods. He had known that one, heard it whispered savagely at the many parties he had attended. “But I would like to call you by your name. So… what is it?”

“Harry. Couldn’t you have asked your father?” Harry couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. His heart leaps and sweat tickles at the back of his neck. Insulting nobles, never mind the son of the emperor, never ends well for slaves, no matter who owns them. “I’m sorry, I spoke out of turn.” He averts his gaze, and loosens his grip on his sword. Gods forbid the man thinks he’s a threat.

From the corner of his eye, Harry watches the expression on the man’s face. How odd, is that anguish? Guilt? Harry can’t tell; he has never seen those emotions on the face of someone superior to him.

“No. Your honesty is refreshing. There are few enough people willing to look me in the eyes, let alone talk back to me.”

Taking the hint, Harry straightens up, shoulders back and head held proudly. His heart flutters when the man smiles at him, pleased. “So, do I have the honour of knowing your name, too?”

“James.” Finally, a name Harry can whisper in the dark, a name he can moan in ecstasy, a name he can cherish. This man has awoken something deep inside of him, a feeling he has never felt for anyone before. Most men only want to admire him, they care nothing for the his thoughts or his words, but James… James finds him refreshing. Just thinking of him makes his stomach flip. Even after so short a time, he would do anything to just be close to him.

They stand in silence for a while. Neither of them quite knowing how this conversation is meant to play out. Harry knows he should be training; he’s not allowed unauthorised breaks. James should be doing something noble, Harry has no idea what obligations the rich have, but he knows they aren’t down in the dungeon training grounds with gladiators and slaves. James clears his throat and takes a step closer to Harry, his expression inscrutable, and oh, how Harry wants to learn how to read James, how to know his mind better than he knows his own.

“I have a question for you, Harry, if you’ll answer. I’m curious.”

Harry shakes himself out of daydreams of the two of them learning each other like the back of their hands. “Okay.” Better not get too attached. This man may not feel the same. This is the emperor’s son, the would-be heir to the throne, and getting involved could mean a death sentence. But the man does make Harry’s heart sing.

“Why do you always ask for your freedom? I heard the trainers and slaves talking. You always ask if you’ve done enough to be free. It’s the same answer every time, but still you ask again. Why?”

Harry thinks about lying. He could brush it off as delirium or adrenaline, as wishful thinking. For all he knows, James will report back to his father and this could all be some elaborate trap to keep in service. But if it isn’t… he doesn’t want to lie to James.

“I’m a slave - as I’m sure you’ve noticed. My mother was a slave and my father was some man who paid to fuck her. My mother’s master sold me to a man who trained gladiators when I kept picking fights with other kids and won. I’ve been a slave since before I was born, it’s all I’ve known. I have nothing, I own nothing. Freedom is all there is.”

“But why? You know what the answer will be. Your master, my father, they will never let you go. You’re their best fighter, their best earner. They would be fools to free you. Why let yourself hope? Why suffer?”

“Because if I don’t hope then what’s the point in living.”

The answer must disappoint James, if the way his face falls is any indication. He seems resigned, depressed, and Harry aches to wipe the look off his face and replace it with a happier one. Harry starts forward, hoping he might offer some comfort, but James steps back, away, and Harry aborts. He brushes off how much the small action hurts.

“If you will excuse me, Harry, I have some business to attend to. You should get back to training.” And with that James departs as swiftly and as silently as he had entered.

Harry is suddenly aware of the silence of the training room, his own breathing, his heartbeat, everything is too loud in such a quiet space. He is also aware of his limbs, where they are and what they’re doing and he doesn’t like it. He feels as ungainly as he did when he was eight and first learning to hold a sword, like a deer on ice. So, to forget how empty he feels without James with him, Harry begins to train again, secretly hoping to feel James’ eyes on his back once more.

*

Days pass and Harry can’t shake the phantom feeling of James’ eyes on him. The hope in his heart when he hears someone behind him and he turns only to find that it isn’t the man he so craves to see. He knows this will only end one way - in heartbreak - but he is only a man. Men fall in love every day. He could never regret what he feels for James.

The door opens behind him, and he turns out of habit. He expects to see just another nameless slave but he looks anyway. His heart stops. It’s James. He came back. Harry tamps down on his smile, not wanting to seem too eager. James looks tired, as if he spent too many sleepless nights tossing and turning, but his eyes brighten when he spots Harry.

“You’re back.” Harry tries for casual. He fails.

James grins. “If I had known you were waiting for me I would have returned sooner. But, alas, there is more to my life than sweaty gladiators and their pointy sticks.” James’ eyes rake down Harry’s bare torso and the hunger Harry sees is enough to soothe the hurt from James’ barbs.

“I’m sure you are a very busy man, but there you are consorting with a sweaty gladiator. Again.” Harry teases. “Do you have more questions or are you going to stare at my chest all day?”

“Perhaps.” James licks his lips in a way he must know is seductive, then casually leans against a pillar. With an elegant wave of his hand he gestures for Harry to continue training. “Do go on.”

Harry obliges, and definitely doesn’t purposefully sashay back to the dummy and he certainly doesn’t flex his muscles in a way he knows is appealing. He does, however, smirk when he hears James shift his weight against the pillar.

“Shouldn’t you be doing something, I don’t know, more imperial than watching me? Commanding troops, going to senate meetings, courting some rich noble son or daughter. You are the emperor’s son, after all.” Harry hopes James will vehemently deny courting anyone - anyone who isn’t Harry, his brain supplies unhelpfully - he doesn’t think he could cope with the jealousy. And perhaps not having to worry about him dying on the front lines while commanding the legions would also be nice.

James is silent behind him, too silent. The flirtatious ambience they had cultivated disappeared, replaced with a tension that made Harry’s skin crawl. What had he said? Did he do something orange? Has he ruined everything? He turns and James isn’t looking at him.

“I’m sorry. Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

James clears his throat and Harry looks away. Why did he have to go and fucking ruin it? Such an idiot. James deserves nobles who know how to hold a conversation without insulting anyone, not Harry. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Harry, look at me.” Harry complies. “It’s nothing you said. It’s just the way things are.” James fidgets. His arms held tight across his chest, jaw so tense it might crack. “I’ve never attended a senate meeting and I have never even spoken with a soldier let alone given him orders. And let’s not start on courting - no one in their right mind would give up their child to marry me”

“I don’t understand. You’re the emperor’s son, his eldest, his heir. Surely he’s grooming you to inherit, surely.”

“I may be my father’s eldest, and I might have the keen political mind that makes manipulating politicians easy, but I am certainly not his heir. I haven’t been since Nathan was born. He will be emperor after my father, he’s the one being groomed. The only reason I am even is alive is because of the love he bears for my mother.”

“That’s… depressing.”

James barks out a dry laugh, but his eyes are still so sad. “Life has not been kind to me. Even my little brother has more influence in the Imperial family than I do.”

“Well, there are… I mean, there’s—“

“Spit it out, Harry. I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”

“The emperor isn’t the only powerful man in the Empire, not even in the city. Juts think how many emperors have been assassinated by the senate alone. I mean, your father wouldn’t host so many parties and Games and parade me around if he didn’t have to impress them and have their support. Just the fact that they exist tells you how powerful they are. What I’m saying is, it’s not the end of the world if you won’t be emperor. In fact, it’s probably safer.”

James looks at Harry with fresh eyes. There’s an appreciation in there. An appreciation of Harry’s mind, not just his body and soul. “You really are smarter than you look.”

Harry scoffs, preening internally at the backhanded compliment. “I may not be able to read or write but I do have a brain.”

“And that beautiful brain of yours has just given me an idea. Thank you, Harry.”

“Do you have to go now, then?” Harry can’t hide the disappointment in his voice and the way his face falls. He’s prepared for yet another abrupt departure when James replies: “I can stay.”

“Good.”

*

Barely a day goes by without James returning to the training ground. At first their conversations are somewhat stilted, neither of them quite knowing how this thing between them will pan out, but after some false starts and some missteps, they find common ground. James talks tentatively about his life - the various escapades of his siblings, his ventures into the senate and the wider world of politics, the tense family dinner he suffered through last night - while Harry spars and listens intently. Harry reciprocates, giving James his brief and depressing life story, a story he hasn’t told anyone.

It is just as Harry dreamed it would be. They know each other in and out, intimately, like the backs of their hands. They can be vulnerable to each other in a way that they could never fathom being in front of others. They may be from opposite ends of the social hierarchy and countless obstacles stand in the way of them and a happy future, but they were content to ignore it in order to enjoy the present. It isn’t until the Great Games, held in honour of the emperor and his heir’s military triumph in Germania, that it becomes clear that they cannot keep on the way they are.

Blood trickles into Harry eye from a cut above his brow, and no amount of furious blinking will clear the red from his vision. He knows how to fight with impaired vision, and it is second nature to listen for his opponents footsteps and to preempt moves. However, his training is rather underwhelming when it comes to facing a gladiator and starving lions at the same time, all while fighting to keep them in sight. There’s a suspicious throbbing in his abdomen that he refuses to dwell on. This is his closest fight yet. Not even the emperor could help him against such odds as these.

A well placed elbow knocks Harry to the ground, a sand cloud erupting around him. Harry coughs, his lungs burn, and the touch of cold iron under his chin freezes his blood. Death suddenly seems so close. Harry won’t count on the emperor saving his life; he has been beaten now, he isn’t the best gladiator anymore.

Time slows. Harry gazes up at the crowd, many of whom are outraged at his defeat, others already seem to mourn him, and some bay for his blood. He turns to the Imperial box, to where the empress has a veil in hand ready to cover her eyes and the youngest son is reading some book or other instead of watching, to where James is on the edge of his seat, a face of pure anguish there for all to see. If Harry dies, here, now, James will be inconsolable. It is in that moment, as he looks at James and sees what will become of his love if he is gone, that Harry determines to live. He is not going to go out like this.

Harry looks up at the gladiator looming over him and steels himself. He grabs hold of the blade and kicks up at the man’s ankles and groin. His opponent doubles over, his grip on his sword loosening. Harry take possession of the sword and proceeds to cut the man down until his life hangs in the balance and he has no choice of getting back up.

Knowing that the gladiator won’t be a problem, Harry turns his attention to the lions, who had taken to devouring each other until only one remained, one with a thirst for blood. Harry adjusts his blood slick grip on the sword. The lion plunges forward and Harry runs too. It’s reckless, he knows, but he leaps into the air at the last moment and vaults over the lion. The lion turns, spit flying from its jaws, and scrapes its paws on the sand, claws gouging into the ground. The lion runs at Harry, who stays put. At the last moment, Harry steps aside and drags his sword up the animal’s flank. The lion stumbles. Harry puts it out of its misery before it can suffer too much for the entertainment of the masses.

Harry returns to stand over his defeated opponent and carries out the emperor’s decision to the pleasure of the crowd. He looks up into the stands and watches James sit back in his seat. There go the butterflies again. Harry raises his sword and cheers along with the crowd, basking in the attention and exaltation. He bows to the Imperial box, his gaze on James as the man finally starts to breathe again. 

The Games end with a lavish reenactment of the emperor’s victory, a microcosm of the war. It’s the largest number of gladiators and criminals and prisoners of war ever assembled in an arena, and Harry is gold he isn’t part of it. Despite those kind of events being heavily rigged, no side is without losses. He doesn’t think James could handle the stress and heartache that would cause.

As it is, Harry endures the prodding and poking that accompanies a visit from a physician while the people of Rome are entertained by the deaths of criminals and foreigners. Thankfully, the pain in his abdomen is just a bruise and pulled muscle - nothing serious - and the old man quickly departs to treat the other gladiators.

There’s a roar from the crowd above him, and an announcer shouting something unintelligible followed by the thundering of feet as the people leave the amphitheatre. The rest of the evening will be filled with partying, drinking and feasting. But a day of celebration wouldn’t be complete without several arrests, a couple of drunken assaults and some theft. There will be no shortage of criminals to execute at the next set of games. And so the cycle continues.

“Harry!” Harry is caught in James’ embrace as he launches himself into the room. James cups the back of Harry’s head and presses a hard kiss - their first - to his temple. “Thank the gods. I thought—“ James catches himself. His voice is thick with choked off tears and trembles with contained emotion.

Harry pulls away to look into James’ teary eyes. “Did you really doubt me?” He tries to joke, but his smile turns sad when James cups his cheek and strokes a thumb under his eye. This is more physically intimate than they have ever been. It’s like a dam breaking; suddenly nothing is off the table. “I couldn’t leave you.” Harry whispers, “I saw how much it would hurt you and I couldn’t let it happen so easily.” James makes a choked sound and his hold on Harry solidifies. Harry can feel James’ breath on his face, feel the brush of his lips on his forehead. Harry lifts his face and step up on his toes to bruhs his lips against James’. It is chaste, barely worthy of being called a kiss, but the shock soon wears off. James raises a brow, a question, which Harry answers with another kiss. This time they don’t hold back.

Near death experiences, Harry finds, lend themselves to a reckless passion. They have no care for who might see or how appropriate it might be at this moment. Too lost in discovering each other, the don’t notice their audience. Only when they break apart, gasping and staring into each others eyes like lovestruck youths do they catch sight of the men in the doorway.

The emperor, surrounded by his Praetorian guard, glares at the two men, pure white hot fury burns in his eyes. A vein in his temple twitches and he clenches his fists by his side. In a deadly calm voice, one that promises hell later, he orders the guards to take James away.

James clings on to Harry, but he is no match for the guards, they have him in their hold before long. Harry fights, though. He lashes out at the guards, using every dirty trick and move he knows, but against three armed men and scared to put James in danger, Harry ends up face down on the floor with a guard pressing down on his back. He watches James be dragged from the room, kicking and screaming. James takes Harry’s heart with him.

“What are you doing? Let him go!” Harry cries, struggling futilely.

The emperor glares down at Harry as if he were nothing more than dirt upon his boot. There is no respect or care for his best gladiator, only contempt and hatred.

“You’re lucky you fight well, boy, or I’d hang you from the city walls for everyone to see.”

“We did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, you did a lot wrong.” The emperor kneels next to Harry’s head and grabs a fistful of Harry’s hair. Harry’s neck strains backwards and it’s hard to breathe, but the emperor doesn’t care. “My most hated son and my most expensive slave. You really thought I’d stand for that? You really think I’d let him ruin you, let you give him ideas, let the two of you disobey me?” His voice becomes firmer and quieter until it’s a sinister hiss in Harry’s ear. Harry flinches away as the emperor’s hand shoots out to wrap around his throat. He squeezes, firmly, and Harry feels his pulse in his head. The emperor clearly has no qualms about getting his own hands dirty for once. “Whatever this thing you have with James - it’s over. You are my gladiator, you will fight for me in that arena and you will die for my in that arena. You will never again ask about your pesky freedom and be thankful I don’t put a collar around that neck of yours.”

“And if I don’t.”

“If you don’t, the Praetorian guard will find my son’s body in street, the victim of an ambitious street thug. And you’ll know it was your fault. His life is in your hands now. Don’t toy with it.”

Harry blinks, and nods. There’s no doubt in his mind that the emperor is willing and even eager to carry out his threats. The emperor lets go of Harry’s neck and orders the guards to release him. Harry stays on the floor even as they leave. He can’t bring himself to get up. Not five minutes ago he was the happiest he could ever remember being, kissing the man he loves like it was their last moment alive. Now, both his life and James’ are being threatening by the emperor, the most powerful man in the known world. He may never see James again, may never speak to him again, but he has to keep fighting, has to keep going, if only to keep James’ heart beating.


	3. Chapter 3

The ring of bruises around Harry’s neck have barely faded when more join them. His new training regime is brutal and unforgiving. No one speaks to him. They only hurt him and harm him. Failure is not an option and the prime teaching method is to beat the lessons into his skin. Harry thinks he could have survived whatever the emperor threw at him so long as James was by his side - his snide comments, his dry humour, his comforting presence - but he hasn’t seen the other man since their kiss. They didn’t have a chance to even talk about what they were now, what they should do about their feelings and their complicated situation.

The only chances Harry had to catch a glimpse of James came during Games. It was only from afar and he could see the guards the emperor had positioned around his son should anything go awry - they were meant to kill James not protect him. Harry had expected James to be depressed, exhausted and lacking fight. But the James he saw during the games sat with his back straight and his chin held proudly. He even managed conversation with some of the nearby senators. Harry was glad that James wasn’t suffering too badly, though it did make him wonder if James ever cared for him at all. That thought is quickly banished, however, with memories of their tender conversations and that heated kiss.

But those doubts remain, regardless of the logic Harry attempts to apply. When the emperor brings him to parties, shadowed by a guard, and whispers into his ear to “look how happy he is, so carefree without the weight of you around his neck”, Harry can’t help hearing the echo of those words at night. He knows the emperor is hardly a trustworthy man but he can’t help listening. It’s not like Harry has any other good role models. And when he sees James laughing louder with some nobles than he ever laughed with Harry part of his brain tells him that it’s fake, merely a ploy to gain support, but all he can see is James having a life without him.

Harry is attempting to punch away his doubts, hoping that the pain in his muscles will override the pain in his heart, when he receives a visitor. It has been weeks, almost months, since James had last been in the training room. Harry has missed the feel of eyes on his back and the burning heat that comes with it. But as the hairs on the nape of his neck rise into the air, Harry knows it isn’t James. He turns, dropping his sword to the floor, and lets the Praetorians usher him out and in the direction of the city’s prison.

Though their walk is short, Harry’s mind is left to roam over a thousand possibilities. Has the emperor grown tired of idle threats? Has James broken the rules? Has Harry? Situations flit through his head, each one worse than the one before. Is he being taken for his execution? Will it be quick and painless or long and torturous? He bets on the latter, knowing his master. Strangely, Harry feels disturbingly serene at the thought of his own execution - at least it frees him from a life of slavery, fights to the death and the emperor’s machinations - in a way.

He is put out of his misery when they finally reach the prison and he is taken to the deepest, darkest part. Through the gloom, behind the thick rusted bars, Harry can make out the figure of a man, curled up on the floor. He thinks he sees the shine of fresh blood, and he can definitely smell metal. He inches forward. Is it…? It can’t be—

A hand clamps down on his shoulder. The emperor leans in to Harry’s space and sneers: “It seems my son couldn’t play by the rules.”

Harry doesn’t dare respond. Silence is better than saying the wrong thing, and there’s a free cell with his name on it not far away. But he dos wonder what James did to put himself in a cell. Did he try to visit Harry? Did he argue one too many times with his father over their love? Harry must mean something to James if the man was willing to risk himself.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, Harry. I know what you’re thinking.” Harry blood runs cold. The emperor has always had a way of getting inside his head. His voice so snake like and persuasive; it slithers into his ear and curls around his brain, spitting venom. “He was planning to run. Had his bags packed and horse saddled, all ready. The guards caught him by the city wall. He didn’t put up much fight - not at the end, at least.” Harry can only imagine what James would look like, if his face weren’t shrouded in shadow, and it’s enough to bring tears to his eyes. His brave, brave, James. Trying to run away, to finally be free. 

The emperor tuts. “I told you. Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He leans in, until his breath his hot against Harry’s ear. “There was only one horse.”

*

The following weeks float by in a dark depression. All hope lost, the light in the darkness snuffed out with one foul breath. James was the only person who mattered to Harry; he hadn’t seen his mother in years, he wasn’t even sure if she was still alive, his father was a complete blank, and being a gladiator wasn’t conducive to friendships. Before Harry never knew how good life could be and he was content to fight everyday and ask for his freedom, but now, knowing the joy of life with James, it can never be the same again.

Each day is the same monotonous routine. Eat, sleep, fight, repeat. Harry works on autopilot, muscle memory taking him through his fights with ease, but he lacks the passion he once had. The cheers of the crowd no longer make him feel appreciated, celebrated, like an important part of their lives, now all he feels is hollow. Freedom is no longer an option. The emperor would have to die before he set Harry free, and Harry is more likely to die before then. There is nothing left for him to fight for.

“Um… Excuse me?” A young man, bedecked in a resplendent purple toga, fidgets by the door of the training room. For all that he is dressed in a way fitting for his position, the emperor’s heir second son isn’t holding himself like a man who’s going to be emperor. Harry can’t help comparing him to his brother. James might be rotting in a cell right now, but Harry can bet he still stands like he owns the room, as if everyone else is beneath him.

The man - Nathan, Harry thinks - waits, as if expecting Harry to say something. He will be sorely disappointed. Harry says nothing. Nathan clears his throat and steps closer, shifting guiltily.

“It’s Harry, isn’t it?” Harry says nothing. “Right. Look, I— I’m, I’m really sorry. I screwed up. James wanted me to pass on a message to you, but I didn’t. I told our father, and now because of me James is locked up and I can’t stop thinking about what I did. I have this… this guilt, regret, shame - I don’t know - but I know I don’t like it and I need to make it right.” Nathan spits out, his face twisted and pained. No one could fake that kind of emotion. Harry believes him. He knows it’s reckless to believe him so easily - does he really want to get his heart broken again? Hoping could just lead to more suffering - but his gut is telling him that James wouldn’t have tried to leave without him, at leats not without telling him.

“What message?”

“He said he was getting things ready, and that you should be prepared for when he came to get you. So you could run away together. He kept saying things about Persia - I think that’s where he wanted to go. But I told my father, and the guards caught him as he was saddling the horses.” Nathan looks Harry in the eye, so earnest and pleading. “I’m sorry.”

Harry steps forward, slowly, menacingly. This man is the reason James is locked up, wasting away in the cold and dark. He’s a snitch. A traitor to his brother. Did he really think it would end well for James, and for Harry? Is he so blind that he can’t see the emperor’s hatred, can’t see the consequences of his actions.

As if sensing Harry’s temper, Nathan stumbles backwards. But not fast enough to avoid the sucker punch Harry lands right on his nose. It cracks satisfying beneath Harry’s knuckles and blood flows down his face in a thick stream. Nathan cries out, clutching his nose as blood splatters onto the floor, but Harry doesn’t spare him another thought. He picks up his sword and sprints from the room.

The way to the city prison is fast and uneventful. No one dares to bother him on account of his story expression, the sword at his hip and the blood on his knuckles. Harry is so determined to get to James, to know the truth, to have hope again, that the lack of resistance barely registers.

James’ cell is in sight, almost within reach. Harry grabs a torch and skids the last few metres to James’ cell and catches himself on the bars. The flickering light of the torch illuminates… an empty cell. James’—

“He isn’t here.”

The emperor’s cold, cruel voice mocks him from the shadows. Yet another happy ending snatched away. He should have known it was a trap - how could he have been os stupid to think that the emperor wouldn’t know exactly hat was going on in his empire. Harry can hear the clink of swords against armour and the shuffling of soldiers’ feet. Not even he could win a fight against heavily armoured and armed soldiers, who outnumber him ten to one. He drops his sword and lets them lock heavy shackles around his wrists and ankles. The emperor steps forward, his eyes gleaming. He looks happier than Harry can ever remember him being. 

“I knew my son would feel guilty about telling me James’ plan, and I knew you would immediately come to free him. You are very predictable, Harry, but not to worry, that won’t be a problem for much longer. I’m organising a week of Games to celebrate my daughter’s upcoming marriage and there will be the greatest gladiator fight the Empire has ever seen. One man against lions, tigers, a giraffe or two, and my personal favourite - hippopotami. Quite dramatic odds, don’t you think? But I’m prepared to risk everything to make my daughter’s big day a day to remember - even my favourite gladiator.” The emperor reaches out to run a hand down Harry’s cheek, as if Harry didn’t already know it which gladiator would be facing those animals. “I did warn you, Harry. You disobeyed me and now there will be one last fight from you. James will be watching, of course, so make it a good show - I want him to see the light go out in your eyes, I want him to see you ripped to pieces. And then, as your blood dries on the sand and your body starts to rot under the sun, I’ll kill my son myself.”

*

The Games in honour of the emperor’s daughter’s marriage is indeed a grand affair. Musicians and actors and poets from all corners of the empire swarm into the city like flies on a dead horse. The streets are filled with laughter and joy. Traders and merchants sell their wares for extortionate prices, and the thieves and criminals take advantage of drunken fools and crowded spaces to pickpocket and thieve their ways through the festivals. Charioteers race in the Circus Maximus; criminals are executed in various outrageous and spectacular ways; the theatres ring with laughter and poetry.

But the main attraction, the reason over 500,000 people crowd into the stands, is for the gladiators. The emperor has promised the greatest show in the world, and he was planning on following through. No expense was spared. He wasn’t even charging the people to attend.

By the time Harry is dragged out of his cell in chains and taken discreetly to the amphitheatre, one hundred criminals have lost their lives and just as many gladiators. Harry’s death is to be the climax of the day. He doesn’t know if the emperor will make his death out to be a tragedy, the loss of the greatest gladiator ever, or if the crowd will think him a disobedient slave who deserves such terrible odds. All he knows is that he won’t go out without a fight. If he is to die, the world will remember him as the man who faced down a hundred beasts and nearly made it out alive.

The shackles are removed when they reach the gates and Harry is given his armour and sword. The arena is empty, but the animals are simply caged underneath the floor, ready to be let up through trapdoors. If Harry can take each animal out as they come up, he might not have to face them all at once. Strategies run through his mind as the announcer reveals the next game. The crowd cheer, then a hush of anticipation falls over the arena.

The bars lift and Harry steps out. He doesn’t pander to the crowds. This isn’t a popularity contest anymore. This is life and death, even more so than any other game he has fought in. This time there is no chance of the emperor sparing his life. This time he faces animals, animals who cannot be reasoned with or outwitted. This time the emperor wants him dead. The most likely outcome is death.

Harry readies himself. He locks his gaze on the floor, searching for any discrepancies, any hints of where the animals will come up. He should be bowing to the emperor, and he knows his disobedience has caused a stir among the people, but one more broken rule hardly matters. Besides, he couldn’t cope seeing James up there, surrounded by soldiers and guards, knowing that the man tried to flee with him and may still love him, and knowing that he will be murdered before sundown.

A trapdoor creaks. Chains ring. An expectant silence falls over the crowd. Harry lifts his sword arm. A woman screams.

Suddenly the ice is broken. It’s chaos in the stands. The woman continues to scream. Men shout and peasants clamber over each other in a desperate bid to flee or to get closer to the commotion - Harry doesn’t know. But a quick glance tells him that something terrible has happened in the Imperial box. James, Harry thinks. Did the emperor get tired of waiting?

The trapdoor behind Harry opens and one of the promised lions leaps out, but the crowd aren’t around to enjoy it. A rippling tan coat and a glorious mane, thick muscles over a lethal skeleton - this lion is well-fed, strong and powerful, and it’s eyes are locked on Harry. There’s a collar around its neck, but there’s nothing holding it back. Harry turns to face his most imminent threat. He’s faced worse than a single lion.

But then the other trapdoor begin to open and all manner of exotic creatures emerge into the arena. The chaos and the deafening noise disorientates the animals, they don’t know what to go after first. Seeing the score of animals the emperor wanted him to face, Harry know he never would have made it and won’t make it now. Perhaps he could run? The crowd aren’t watching, no one would care if he scaled the walls and made a bid for freedom.

Slowly, Harry backs up, trying to keep both the animals and his exit in sight. No sudden movements. Until the fangs and dripping jaws and lethal claws are aimed at him - the nearest target - and suddenly there is no clear exit. His heart pounds, the odds are insurmountable, he’ll never make it.

“Harry! Quickly! Run over here!” James?

Harry doesn’t have time to question, only run. He follows the voice who continues to shout encouragements, slashing at anything that dares to swipe at him. He sees only form, not features. Everything is an enemy until he spots the hands reaching down into the arena to haul him up. He leaps, abandoning his sword in favour of grabbing the hands. He feels the brush of air against his ankles and the gentle scrape of claws.

As he is pulled up and over, Harry loses his balance and falls onto a warm body. He looks deep into familiar eyes and the world is right again. James. The emperor hasn’t killed him yet. He’s still alive.

Harry reaches out to caress James’ cheek, to feel the blood rush under his skin and feel the warmth. The pulse, the steady blush, the hurried breaths. He can’t stop staring into those deep, beautiful eyes. If only this moment could last forever, he doesn’t want this happiness to ever end. He doesn’t want to hearth punchline.

“James?”

“I’m okay, Harry. We’re both okay.” Harry clambers off of James, but takes a firm hold of his hand. He won’t be letting James out of his sight for a long while. James seems to think the same, as he loops an arm around Harry’s waist and holds him flush against his body.

Content that James is staying by his side, Harry looks up at the aftermath of whatever it was that happened. The stands are abandoned, apart from the Imperial box, where the Imperial family huddle over someone - a dead body, Harry realises.

“James, what happened?”

James sighs. He tugs Harry away, returning his attention to James’ face. “When we first met, you motivated me to get involved in life, in politics. I made allies and even some friends, and those allies came in handy today. I couldn’t let you die in that arena, I knew I had to do something drastic. My father’s dead. We’ll have a new emperor and I will make sure he sets you free.”

Harry looks up at where the Imperial family are gathered. The princess, Ellie, sobs on her knees - what a terrible way to end her wedding celebrations - while her new husband consoles her. Harry feels a small burst of satisfaction at the sight of Nathan’s broken nose. Beside them all, Harry can see the purple toga and laurel crown of the emperor. Along with a blood stain.

“You killed your father?” Harry couldn’t believe it. James was willing to kill his own father to save Harry from death? The emperor was hardly kind to his son - willing to kill him with his own hands isn’t hardly the hallmark of good parenting - but James had never expressed any desire to rebel before. 

“No. My father was assassinated by a rogue senator who fled the city in the chaos.” James and Harry share a look. Harry nods. So long as James stays out of trouble, Harry will accept whatever story James tells. He’s so proud, so happy. His heart might burst. 

“Who’s the new emperor?”

“Nathan. He knows the ins and outs of controlling senators and directing armies better than I ever could. He’s the heir in my father’s will.”

Harry scoffs. “You and I both know that wills mean little in the grand scheme of things. If you want to be emperor, it wouldn’t be hard to arrange. You organised a successful assassination, brought together more senators than anyone before you, and you have the best political mind I know. You’d make a good emperor.”

“I don’t want to be emperor. I have everything I have right here.” James cups Harry’s face, and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. Harry’s blush is one for the ages. Never before has a man blushed so pink or so strongly.

“But will Nathan really free me? What if your father’s influence is too strong? I did break his nose, don’t forget.”

James smirks. “How could I? When I heard - I have never been more proud and aroused.” James pulls Harry clover by his hips. “Don’t worry, I think he will. I said I’d only forgive him for betraying me if he freed you and let us leave the city. Speaking of… how does Egypt sound?”

“Egypt?”

“I believe I will be named prefect of Egypt soon, and I will need a bodyguard. Come with me?”

“To Egypt? With you? Of course. Yes, yes.” Harry pushes up on his toes and presses his lips to James’. Their second kiss holds the same fire as the first, in fact, even more so. Twice the number of near death experiences and the heightened emotions of fear, excitement and arousal, it all comes together to create a tidal wave of love and lust, a whirlwind that steals their hearts away.

Harry pulls away, breathless but still clinging on to James like a barnacle. “I love you. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“Never. I swear. I love you, too.”


End file.
